


The Human Heart A Captive In The Snow

by alby_mangroves, velvetjinx



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Crossoverish, Cursing in Russian, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Set in Russia, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 05:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13427868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx/pseuds/velvetjinx
Summary: Steve travels to Russia to write a biography of a Russian ex dancer but, while there, falls in love with the beautiful but mysterious dancer, Nikita.





	The Human Heart A Captive In The Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Velvetjinx: oh gosh where to start! Thanks to Alby for the idea and the other ideas and the suggestions and the amazing art. ILU!!! Thanks also to ediblecrayon for the cheerleading and the beta, and Elton John and Moulin Rouge for the inspiration. ETA: all Russian cusses were taken from this site. 
> 
> Alby: thank you to the CAPRBB slack for their support and awesomeness and to Jinx for running with the idea where we take [Elton's beautiful song "Nikita"](https://youtu.be/Tg-Q-Acv4qs) and make Bucky and Steve star in it ♥

_Moscow, October 5, 1984_

Steve looked down at his papers nervously as the train pulled into the station. They had been checked at the border and everything had been in order, but there was always a chance.

He glanced down at his passport and bit his lip. Hopefully his host would be there to meet him. His camera bag had been triple checked, and he knew that his notes would be too, to make sure that he was saying nothing negative about the soviet regime.

His host, Rudolph Sakharov, had been a member of the Russian ballet in his youth, and now retired was giving interviews to various reporters about his rise to fame. Steve was the lucky choice from the U.S., partly because Sakharov had been impressed by a piece he had written about Richard Feynman, the renowned U.S. physicist.

Crossing the Iron Curtain was both terrifying and exhilarating, and Steve couldn't wait to get started on his interview. He was to spend a week with his host; the piece would be conversational, rather than just question and answer. And since his host had invited him, he had also insisted on paying Steve's travel over, which was just as well as Steve was not yet well known enough to be making particularly good money. He was pretty sure that he had about two hundred dollars to his name until he got his next paycheck.

Sakharov had also promised to show him the sights and, while still apprehensive, Steve had a taste for adventure, and this certainly promised to be that.

He stepped off the train, and spotted his host behind the barriers. Sakharov waved at him, and Steve waved back as the stern looking guard checked his papers. When the guard noticed who he was waving to, he gave Steve a disbelieving look, then waved him through.

Sakharov grinned at him, pulling him into an embrace before holding him out at arm’s length to look at him. Sakharov wasn't old--Steve knew that he was forty five--and he had a youthful air about him. His hair was sandy blond, and his eyes a deep brown with laughter lines at the corners. Steve liked him immediately.

“It is a long journey, yes?” Sakharov asked, smiling, and Steve nodded. “Hopefully you got some sleep on the train, because we have a long day ahead!”

Steve smiled back at his host. “I did, a little, but I'm fairly refreshed and looking forward to spending the week with you.”

“Good, good! Come with me.” Steve followed his host out of the train station to the car park, and Sakharov led him towards a red convertible. Steve raised an eyebrow, saying nothing, but Sakharov noticed and laughed. “You did not expect such a fancy car, did you? But I like my creature comforts.”

Steve climbed into the passenger seat as Sakharov put his luggage in the trunk, then they set off through the city, eventually pulling up at a large apartment block.

Steve looked at his host curiously. “Where are we?” he asked.

“My home! I thought you might want to drop off your luggage and freshen up before I took you to explore.”

“Yes, thank you,” Steve replied gratefully. Although the journey had been long and tiring, Steve still felt like he had boundless energy, and was looking forward to getting out and exploring. He hoped that they wouldn’t drive everywhere; he had been sitting for so long on the train that he needed to stretch his legs.

Sakharov’s apartment was large, light and airy, and Steve's room had a beautiful view of the city. He washed his face in the bathroom then changed out of his travel-wrinkled clothes into fresh ones before going to rejoin his host in the big open living room.

They had a light lunch, then Sakharov took Steve on a tour around the city. Steve made sure he had his notebook and camera with him, as he intended to document everything.

“I will take you to the Red Square first, I think,” Sakharov told him as they drove. “There you will see Lenin’s tomb, as well as cathedrals and impressive architecture.”

“That sounds great!” Steve enthused. “Thank you again for inviting me here. I’m really excited to see the sights and get to know you better.”

“And I you, my friend,” Sakharov replied with a smile. “I am sure we both have many preconceived notions about what it is to be an American or a Russian, and hopefully we can break down some of those barriers.”

“I would like that very much.” Steve paused. “So what do you all think of Americans over here?”

Sakharov laughed. “Fat capitalist barbarians, mostly. You could tell some soviets that Americans eat their young and they’d simply nod sagely. But here you are, and you’re neither fat nor a barbarian! Tell me, my friend, how does a journalist keep in such good shape?”

“I work out a lot,” Steve replied, blushing and laughing in equal measures. “Because a lot of my job is sitting at a typewriter, if I didn’t work out regularly I probably would get fat. I like to eat,” he finished, chagrined, and Sakharov smirked.

“It is one of life’s little pleasures, is it not? Good food, and good company. Ah, here we are!”

Sakharov parked the car and they walked together to the Red Square. Steve stared up at the buildings, some very old indeed, and his eyes widened. He snapped several photographs as they walked around, Sakharov keeping up a gentle monologue of what exactly Steve was looking at, and the history of it all.

“There’s so much history,” Steve said in hushed tones.

“Yes. And these buildings are very old, I suppose, to someone coming from such a young country.”

Steve nodded. “In the states, if something is 200 years old it’s pretty ancient. Here I suppose that would be quite new.”

“You are not wrong,” Sakharov replied with a laugh. “No, you are not wrong about that.”

Steve snapped some good shots of the buildings, and made notes as Sakharov talked. At length, Sakharov looked at his watch and gasped.

“We have spent so long here, and there is so much to see! Come, if you are ready, and we will move on.”

Steve nodded, and they headed back to the car.

They drove to the Kremlin, and the tomb of the unknown soldier, which Steve found exceptionally poignant. His own grandfather had been killed in the First World War.

By the early evening, Steve's energy was starting to wane, but Sakharov jostled his shoulder as they pulled up outside his apartment block.

“I hope you are not overly tired yet, my friend, because I have a treat in store for you tonight.”

Steve looked at him curiously, but Sakharov would say no more, except that Steve should dress nicely. And so, in his best suit, Steve drove with Sakharov into the center of the city.

They parked down a side street, then Sakharov led Steve down even darker and dirtier side streets until they reached an unassuming looking door. Sakharov rapped at the door in a strange rhythm, and a peephole opened. The man inside said something in Russian, and Sakharov responded with a smile. The door creaked open, and Steve found himself in a pitch black room as the door closed behind them.

He had a sudden panicked thought that he was going to be murdered, but then a door opened in front of him and music blared out. Sakharov led Steve inside a large room with a stage at the front, and they sat together at one of the many tables.

“What is this place?” Steve asked, and Sakharov grinned.

“Burlesque, for those who practice the love that dare not speak its name.” Steve looked at him in surprise, and Sakharov rolled his eyes. “You have written about your own preferences—bear in mind I have read all your works—and although mine are not precisely public knowledge it is a badly kept secret. Places like this would be shut down in an instant were it not for the fact that several of its patrons”--Sakharov gestured discreetly towards some men sitting near the front--“were important members of the cabinet.”

As they ordered their drinks, the lights dimmed, and a rather large gentleman in a circus master’s uniform took to the stage.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, we have a treat in store for you tonight. Dancing for you is our very own jewel. May I proudly present… Nikita!”

There was a roar of applause as a group of men marched onto the stage wearing Soviet military uniforms. Another marched out behind them, and Steve's breath caught in his throat. The man was ridiculously handsome, with delicately chiseled features and a small amount of stubble.

He began calling out orders in Russian, and the other men began to march in line as if they were truly military. Then he barked out another order, and the men surrounded him. They stripped him of his hat, jacket, and pants while shielding him from view, then stepped to the side as he walked forward on the stage.

Steve's eyes nearly popped out his head. Nikita--if that was the dancer’s name--was wearing very little. His long hair was straight and brushing against his bare shoulders, and well-defined pecs peeped out from above the red underbust corset. He wore black panties with matching garter and stockings, and his feet were clad in high red heels.

He began to sway to the music, hips moving sinuously. He blew a coquettish kiss to the men in the front, who whooped and hollered, before turning back to the other men on the stage. He danced with each of them languorously, rubbing himself against them and tilting his head back as though in ecstasy. The crowd went wild, and he took two feather fans from the side before beginning an elaborate dance with them.

Steve could barely take his eyes off the sight in front of him. He had never seen such a beautiful man before. As Nikita danced, he stepped down from the stage, dancing for various patrons in turn. When he reached Steve he smirked and winked, pressing a kiss to his cheek before moving on.

Steve looked over at Sakharov, wide eyed, and his host laughed quietly.

“He is truly something, that Nikita, is he not?” Sakharov murmured. All Steve could do was nod as he watched the dancer work the room.

The song had finished, and Nikita had disappeared. The other dancers were wandering around the club, joking and laughing with the patrons, and getting so many drinks bought for them that Steve began to wonder whether they would be able to work after so much.

Sakharov smiled at Steve. “See anyone you like? I’m sure they’d be willing to chat to a handsome American like yourself.”

“No thank you,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “I’m just amazed. I have always heard that you Russians can really drink, but those dancers have drunk so much and aren’t even unsteady.”

Sakharov smirked. “Do you think that the bar will get the dancers drunk? What they drink is a small amount of vodka mixed with a lot of water. That way they keep their heads and don’t get taken advantage of.”

As Steve looked around the club, he could see that many of the patrons were ignoring the dancers completely, locked in their own embraces. Steve looked away quickly, but supposed it was inevitable. If there was a safe space for you, then you took advantage.

When the evening was at an end and the club was closing, Steve followed Sakharov back to the car in silence. As they climbed in, Sakharov let out a laugh.

“I had heard that Americans were usually loud, talkative types, but you have barely said a word all evening, my friend. Has Nikita so affected you?”

“I think I'm in love,” Steve murmured, and Sakharov shook his head, driving off.

“Nikita is not to fall in love with. He dances, he sleeps with politicians for money, oh yes, a lot of money, although that is rarely spoken about. The only reason they have not been arrested is because these politicians are just as corrupt as the others, and they keep each other’s secrets. They are also very influential men who are loyal to the Soviets, and to get rid of them would no doubt be a mistake. Of course they married women and keep their outside relationships quiet to keep up appearances.”

Steve sighed, accepting the wisdom of his host’s words. He would likely never see the breathtaking Nikita again, but perhaps that was for the best.

***

The following afternoon, Sakharov had some matters to attend to, and so Steve found himself at a loose end. But his host suggested places in the city for him to visit alone, and Steve found himself with a coffee in the Gorky Central Park of Culture and Leisure. He strolled through, mostly people watching as he dared not take any photographs without his host escorting him.

As he turned a corner, a young man bumped into him, spilling Steve's coffee over them both.

“Ну охуеть теперь!” the man exclaimed, and Steve held his hands up.

“Oh god, I'm so sorry,” he stammered in broken Russian, and the guy looked up at him as Steve's breath caught in his throat.

“Fucking watch where you're going, yeah?” The guy replied in English.

“Uh. N--Nikita?” Steve blurted out, and the guy’s eyes widened. Steve opened his mouth to ask again, but the guy grabbed him and dragged him behind the nearest tree.

“Don't fucking use that name here,” he growled, and Steve looked at him curiously. His accent was a strange mash up of Russian and New York, and Steve found himself even more intrigued. “Call me Bucky if you have to call me anything.”

“Bucky?” Steve blinked. “But, I mean, you are…?”

Nikita--Bucky--sighed. “I take it you've seen my show. Yeah, I'm… him. But it's not exactly the kind of thing you talk about in the middle of a park.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “What?”

Bucky laughed. “Man, there are ears everywhere.” He looked thoughtfully at Steve. “Come on, I'll buy you another coffee, since we're both wearing yours.”

“Thanks,” Steve replied, and Bucky smiled at him. Steve's heart pounded in his chest. Bucky was beautiful when he smiled. They sat on a park bench with their coffees, and Steve couldn’t help but notice how beautiful Bucky was, even in normal clothes and out in the afternoon sun. He cleared his throat. “So, uh. Can I ask you something?”

Bucky shrugged. “Sure. Can't promise you I'll answer it though.”

Steve couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at that. “Your accent--it's kinda, I don't know, mixed?”

Bucky sat back and grinned at Steve. “Yeah, well, ‘s what happens when you're American and move to Russia as a teenager. Your accent tends to be a little mixed when you're speaking English.”

“You moved here?”

“Yeah. My mom was Russian and when my dad passed away she moved us back here. She, uh. Wasn’t happy here, and died soon after.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said sincerely.

“It's fine.” Bucky shrugged. “Every decision you make has consequences. I learned that a long time ago.”

“How did she die, if you don’t mind me asking?” Steve asked. She must have been young.

Bucky's expression tightened. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

It was strange, but the mystery surrounding Bucky only made Steve more eager to get to know him. He looked at his watch. “Man, I hate to leave, but I promised my host I'd be back for dinner.” He smiled shyly. “I’d like to bump into you again, though.”

“Sure,” Bucky replied with a grin. “I assume you have enough spending money.”

“I have some?” Steve looked at Bucky curiously.

Bucky lowered his voice, turning slightly away from Steve to casually lean on the railings. “You’ll need two hundred dollars cash.”

“I didn’t think restaurants were that pricey?” Steve said slowly, but as Bucky raised his eyebrow, the penny dropped, and so did Steve’s jaw. “I don't have that kind of money! I meant, like, a date!” he whispered.

“Sorry, man. I don't date. At least, not for free.” Bucky looked slightly chagrined. “If my current… patrons heard that I was, they'd be less than pleased, and my boss even less so.”

“Bucky, I really like you.”

“And I don't even know your name.”

“Steve. I'm Steve.”

Bucky's lips quirked into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Steve, but there's no way if you can't pay.”

Bucky stood to go, and Steve caught his arm. “Bucky, don't you believe in love?”

“Love makes us act like we are fools, and we throw it all away for just one day,” Bucky replied sadly, and shook Steve's hand off before walking away.

***

The following morning, over breakfast, Sakharov sighed. “My friend, I am truly sorry, but the business I had hoped would be completed yesterday may take all week. We can spend the mornings and evenings together, but you will have to entertain yourself in the afternoon. Do you mind terribly?”

Steve smiled at his host. “Not at all. I completely understand. What times will you be busy?”

“After lunch and before dinner, so between one and five. But there will be much for you to do in the city yourself.”

“Absolutely,” Steve agreed with a smile.

And so, that afternoon, Steve headed back into the center of Moscow. He found himself in the same park, refusing to admit that it was the hope of seeing Bucky that brought him there. Lightning would hardly strike twice in the same…

“Steve?”

Steve looked up from where he was sitting on one of the many benches to see Bucky, a half smile on his face.

“Hey, Bucky.”

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asked, sitting next to Steve and turning towards him.

Steve shrugged. “My host is busy in the afternoons with business, so I thought I'd come back here since it's so beautiful. What about you?”

Bucky shrugged, giving Steve a forced looking smile. “I love this park. I come here most days. There's something so peaceful about it, you know?”

Steve had the feeling Bucky wasn't telling him the whole truth, but didn't call him on it. He opened his mouth to ask Bucky if he wanted a coffee, but Bucky looked at his watch and said something in Russian that even to Steve's untrained ear sounded like a cuss.

“I've gotta go. I have about a million things to do today. Will you be back tomorrow?”

Steve nodded, smiling. “Yeah.”

“Then I guess I'll probably see you tomorrow.” Bucky grinned at him before heading off, and Steve sighed to himself. He shouldn't torture himself like that, but he also genuinely enjoyed Bucky's company. If he couldn't have a relationship with the man, maybe Steve could at least enjoy his friendship.

***

They met every afternoon in the park for the rest of the week. On the second day, Bucky bought him a coffee and pointed out the surrounding sights, telling Steve about the city, although he still refused to talk about himself. The third day, Steve bought the coffee, and they walked through the park together, before walking back to Sakharov’s apartment. Steve knew the way now, but he felt like maybe Bucky just wanted to spend time with him, which made him happier than he was willing to admit.

Steve had taken a few photographs of Bucky around the most scenic areas of the park. At first, Bucky had been so camera shy that Steve despaired of him ever letting Steve take his photograph. But as the days went on, Bucky relaxed enough to let Steve snap a few shots. The camera loved him, and to see him standing there, wind whipping his long hair about his face, nearly took Steve’s breath away.

Sakharov had taken Steve back to the burlesque show twice more in their evenings together, and Steve had watched in awe the transformed Bucky as Nikita, slinking around and seducing the entire room. He always gave Steve a kiss on the cheek, and Steve blushed each time as Sakharov gave him a knowing look.

The fourth day, Bucky jokingly asked Steve if he had anything in his notes about him. “No,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “You’re just, you know. On my mind.” Bucky blushed, and Steve realized that he was really falling for Bucky. He was smart, and funny, and so beautiful it made Steve's heart hurt. But Bucky refused to go into how he had started dancing.

“It's not a story you want to hear,” he'd said, mouth tight, and Steve had dropped the subject. Instead, he’d asked Bucky to pose in front of some trees. As Steve snapped the photos, a pair of uniformed Militsiya marched past, pausing, before turning back.

“идентификация,” one of them snapped, and Steve looked to Bucky.

“He wants your identification papers,” Bucky murmured, and Steve took them out, hands shaking. The Militsiya checked both sets of papers over, then nodded, marching away again.

“Wow,” Steve said breathily, and Bucky shook his head, buttoning up his coat.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said quickly, and stalked away, ignoring Steve saying his name.

The next day, Bucky was nowhere to be found. Steve waited for a full half hour before finally giving up and heading off into the city. He didn’t see Bucky again until the following night, his last in Russia. Sakharov had once again taken him to the club, and as Bucky—Nikita—danced past him, unusually not stopping to acknowledge Steve, Steve looked at him pleadingly.

“Nikita?”

Bucky looked at him, sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he murmured quietly, leaning down and pretending to dance for Steve. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Steve told him, and Bucky went pale.

“Okay. I’ll be there tomorrow. Damn you.”

With that, Bucky was off, dancing for the next patron. Sakharov returned from the bathroom and sat down, smiling.

“You will be sorry to leave, I think?” Sakharov said kindly, and Steve swallowed around a lump in his throat.

“Yeah.”

***

His last morning in Moscow, Steve looked down at his camera and notes, and sighed contentedly. He'd managed to get enough to write a decent piece on his host, and he was also happy with several of the photographs he'd taken.

His host had a meeting that day, and he hugged Steve tightly. “I am sorry, my friend, that I cannot take you to the train station myself.”

“It's fine,” Steve replied, smiling. “I've really enjoyed my time with you. Thank you so much for letting me stay here.”

“It has been my pleasure. And if you ever feel the need to come back, you know where I am. Maybe we will go and see Nikita dance again, hmm?”

Steve smiled sadly, knowing how unlikely it was, and inside his heart was pounding..

He got a cab to the park, and waited on the usual bench. His train wasn't until the evening, so he had plenty of time to spend. As he looked around the park, he saw a familiar figure approaching.

Bucky's face fell when he saw Steve's luggage around him. “So you're really leaving today, huh?” he said softly.

“Yeah.”

Bucky sat next to him, tilting his head to one side. “I think I'm gonna miss you, Steve. You've gotten right under my skin in a way I didn't think was possible any more.” He bit his lip and sighed as Steve felt a flare of hope in his chest. “It's just as well you're going home now so I can forget about you.” Bucky's expression was teasing, but it still stung Steve to think that Bucky would want to forget about him.

“Coffee?” Steve asked abruptly, trying to break the tension which had built between them.

Bucky nodded, smiling, and stood to go. As Steve picked up his camera bag, he noticed a small envelope stuffed down the back of the bench and took it out, frowning. “Hey, is this yours?” he asked, and Bucky turned, his face falling and going pale when he saw what was in Steve's hand.

“Steve, I…” Steve looked up and saw a suited man narrowing his eyes at them and starting to walk towards them. Bucky grabbed hold of Steve's arm and pulled him along through the park. “Don't look. Just keep your head down and keep walking,” Bucky murmured quietly, and Steve nodded, dragging his old, battered suitcase along behind him.

They reached the car park and Steve got into Bucky's car. Bucky barely even waited for him to close his door before flooring the gas pedal, and Steve looked in the mirror to see several suited men at the entrance to the park, talking on their radios.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Bucky cursed, taking out his own radio. “Tony? Yeah, I've been totally compromised. I'll explain when I see you. I'm on my way to you now. Okay. Bucky out.”

Steve looked questioningly at Bucky. “What's going on?”

“What's going on is that you're a pain in my ass, Steve,” Bucky said with a short laugh. “Literally years I've been doing this, and you fuck it up in a few seconds. Ебаное дно, fuck.”

As they pulled up at the US Embassy, Steve could see some unmarked cars coming up the road. He grabbed his things and followed Bucky inside the large, imposing building. When the brunette at the front desk saw Bucky, her eyes widened.

“Tony's waiting on you,” she told Bucky, who nodded and carried on up the stairs, Steve not far behind.

Bucky led Steve into a large office, where a man and redheaded woman were waiting. Bucky shook hands with them both.

“Tony, Natasha, this is Steve, the guy who just managed to blow my cover.”

Tony and Natasha looked at Steve disdainfully, and Steve felt like crap.

“Natasha, please take our guest to one of the rooms,” Tony said slowly. “I’ll get the debrief from Barnes here.”

Natasha nodded and motioned for Steve to follow her. She led Steve through a maze of corridors and staircases to a rather plush room, and Steve sat on the bed, still in shock and putting the pieces together.

Bucky wasn’t just a dancer.

Bucky was—had to be—a spy.

Steve felt as though his entire world had been turned upside down. He had thought he had fallen in love with a dancer. Turned out he wasn't just a dancer at all.

As Steve sat there, feeling sorry for himself, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he called, and Bucky slipped inside.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but Bucky shook his head and he closed it again. “You really are a pain in my ass, Steve, you know that?” Bucky said, but his tone was almost fond. “I was getting some really good intel from all those politicians, because my god they don't know how to shut up if you give them a good enough orgasm, and then you come along and blow my cover.”

“I'm sorry,” Steve said quietly, and Bucky sat next to him on the bed with a sigh.

“Don't be. It’s okay.” Bucky smiled sadly, and the enormity of the situation hit Steve like a freight train. He hadn’t just blown Bucky’s cover. He’d blown his whole life here. Bucky would never be able to come back. Steve felt worse than he’d ever felt in his life, knowing that Bucky might never forgive him. But as though he could hear what Steve was thinking, Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve's. “So, uh. Even knowing what you know about me--the things I've done--you maybe wanna have dinner once we're back on US soil?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah. I think I'd like that. Still can't afford two hundred dollars, though.”

Bucky looked appalled. “Jeez, Steve, no, I don't want your money. I mean a real date where we split the check and you see me home, maybe kiss me on my doorstep?”

“Consider it a date,” Steve replied, his heart thumping. “Uh. Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

Bucky smiled. “I thought you'd never ask,” he said softly, and leaned in at the same time as Steve. As their lips met, Steve felt as though freezing fire was rushing through his veins, and he shivered as Bucky moved to deepen the kiss. They kissed for long enough that Steve's lips started to go numb, then Bucky pulled back. “I, uh. Yeah. I can't wait for our date,” Bucky said with a small smile, and Steve grinned at him.

***

It took four hours for the swap to be organized. While they waited, Steve and Bucky were sitting hand in hand in Steve's bedroom, exchanging the occasional kiss.

“So, are you ever going to tell me how you got into all this?” Steve murmured against Bucky's lips.

“I could,” Bucky responded with a smirk, “but I’d have to kill you.” Steve pouted, and Bucky laughed. “Come on, Steve. I’m a government agent. I can’t tell you my life story. Besides, don’t you like me a little mysterious?”

Steve rolled his eyes.

***

Finally, the swap was organized, and Steve and Bucky were on a plane back to the US. When they arrived, Steve turned to Bucky, smiling, and kissed him softly. “Home,” he said with a relieved laugh, but then a group of men in suits arrived and took Bucky’s arms, marching him away. Bucky didn’t even spare Steve a backward glance as more suited men approached, searching Steve’s bags before escorting him into the back of a car with tinted windows.

They told Steve as they drove that if he mentioned any of this in his article there would be consequences, and Steve believed them, nodding in agreement.

Finally they dropped him off at his apartment and he dragged his suitcase up the stairs. As soon as he was inside he flopped down on the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Days passed, turning into weeks, and there was no sign of Bucky. Steve began to wonder if he’d imagined it all—especially the kisses and promises of a date—but there, when he developed his photographs, was Bucky’s smiling face, laughing at Steve and the camera.

Steve put all the photos of Bucky in a drawer. Maybe it was best just to forget about it all.

***

It was December, and the snow had fallen thickly on the ground. Steve was wrapped up against the chill when he entered his local coffee shop. He took his coffee cup over to an empty table—the last on the coffee shop—and opened his book. He paid no attention to the door opening or closing, so engrossed in the story was he, until a weirdly familiar voice said from next to him,

“Mind if I join you?” Steve looked up, gaping. It couldn’t be… it couldn’t, but it was. Bucky stood there, equally wrapped up against the cold weather, a Russian fur hat on his head. “I’m Bucky,” Bucky said casually, as if Steve didn’t know, as if Steve hadn’t dreamed about him every night for two months.

“Steve,” Steve replied, swallowing hard.

“Good name,” Bucky said with a smile. “So what do you do, Steve?”

Mostly Steve wanted to yell at Bucky, ask him where the hell he’d been for two months, but he had the feeling if he did that then Bucky’s bosses might not let them see each other again, so he glanced down at his coffee cup before meeting Bucky’s gaze.

“I’m a writer,” Steve said quietly.

“That’s cool,” Bucky said easily. “So this might be pretty forward, but would you like to have dinner with me tonight?”

“I’d like that,” Steve responded, mouth dry.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee. Steve didn’t know what to say—didn’t know what he _could_ say—but Bucky seemed happy to just sit together quietly.

At length, Bucky stood. “You hungry now?”

Steve nodded and followed Bucky out of the coffee shop. As they walked, Bucky took his hand, and Steve stopped, turning to face him.

“Bucky, I—” Steve began, and Bucky put his finger to Steve’s lips.

“I know. I know,” he said softly, cupping Steve’s cheek in his palm. The snow fell around them as they stood together on the sidewalk, out of the way of the people rushing around, and Bucky leaned in to kiss him. It was different to all their other kisses—unhurried, as though they had all the time in the world—and as Bucky’s lips moved softly against his, Steve felt hope well up in his chest.

Maybe things would work out okay after all.

 

 


End file.
